Safety isn’t just a word for me—it’s a principle and a value I hold very closely. It’s something I deeply believe every individual deserves, no matter where they are. It’s the foundation for so much of what I do, and it’s been a guiding light in my journey, from my early days in the classroom to the work I continue to do today. Without safety—physical, emotional, or psychological—how can anyone truly thrive? How can we hope to build anything meaningful?
This belief became crystal clear to me during my time as a Teach For India fellow. One of the values the organization instilled in us was the importance of safe spaces. They understood that vulnerability requires safety, and they ensured that every fellow, every colleague, had that space to be open, to share, and to simply be. When I was placed in a government school, I quickly realized the stark contrast between that concept and the reality many children lived with. The students were grappling with far more than their textbooks—there were battles being fought at home, with domestic abuse, malnutrition, bullying, mental health struggles, and more.
How could I, or anyone, expect them to learn when they didn’t feel safe in the classroom? This realization shifted everything for me. My classroom had to be more than a place for academics—it had to be a haven. A place where these kids felt protected, seen, and valued. A place where they could drop their guard, if only for a few hours a day. That’s what safety meant to me then, and that’s what it means to me now.
Fast forward to today, and that core belief hasn’t changed. Wherever I go, I want to create spaces where people feel safe. Whether it's a work meeting, a gathering of friends, or a new environment—like my current stay in London—I carry that value with me. But in the past week, I’ve had to confront a difficult reality. Despite my own efforts to cultivate safety, I’ve found myself in situations that have made me question just how safe I really am.
It all started with an incident I read about on LinkedIn. A young woman from India had traveled to London with dreams, much like mine. She was here to chase opportunities, to build something bigger for herself. But one afternoon, she was approached by a stranger who demanded money. When she told him she didn’t have any, he punched her in the face, leaving her bleeding and disoriented. What followed was heartbreaking: she returned to India because she no longer felt safe here.
That story hit me hard. This is London, one of the world’s most cosmopolitan cities, a place of ambition and opportunity. Yet, in broad daylight, this woman’s sense of security was shattered. She came with dreams and left with scars. What kind of message does that send about this city?
But its not just that. Everywhere I turned, there was talk of phone thefts. It felt like every conversation, whether at Goodenough College or LSE, came with a warning: “Don’t use your phone in public.” I didn’t think much of it at first—after all, phone thefts happen everywhere, right? But the more I listened, the more it started to sink in. People spoke of thieves on e-bikes or motorcycles, snatching phones out of people’s hands and disappearing before anyone could react. I began to feel a growing sense of vulnerability.
What struck me wasn’t just the rise in these thefts—40-100% year-on-year, according to some reports—but what these thefts represented. It wasn’t just about losing a phone. It was about the fear that came with it. The fear of having your personal information exposed. The fear that someone could access your bank accounts, your photos, your identity. The realization that a single stolen phone could unravel so much of your life.
I hadn’t even considered these risks before. But suddenly, I found myself thinking about them constantly. What if my phone is stolen? What if someone misuses my data? What if I’m mugged while walking down the street? What if a car hits me while I’m jaywalking? These “what ifs” began to pile up, and I started to realize just how much of my life—and, in fact, many of our lives—are driven by fear.
Fear that something might go wrong. Fear that our safety could be compromised in an instant. It’s unsettling, and to be honest, it feels deeply at odds with the values I hold. I’ve always believed that we should strive to create safe spaces, both personally and collectively. Spaces where we can trust one another, where we don’t have to live in constant fear.
But these incidents have left me wondering: how do we build that kind of society? How do we create a world where safety isn’t something we have to actively think about, but something we can simply rely on? In a previous blog, I wrote about the idea of a trust-based society, and now I find myself asking: how do we create a safety-based society?
As I continue my time in London, this question lingers in my mind. It’s a question I don’t have the answers to yet, but one that I’ll keep exploring—because I believe that everyone, no matter where they come from or where they are, deserves to feel safe.
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